The French Atlantic coast: Biarritz
Trip miles 3,386
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| A return to the French Atlantic coast |
We drove the 120 miles west along the fast A64 toll road from a free stop-over at Lannemezan.
The weather was dreadful, headwinds and rain meant slow progress and the
promised mountain views did not materialise out of the low-lying clouds.
Visibility was less than 100 meters in some parts.
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| Le Phare de Biarritz |
It was a relief to arrive in the late afternoon at a
beachside aire in Anglet. The sun had now poked through the heavy clouds so we took a small beer each on the cliffs and looked
out at the beacon shining on the waters from the light house at nearby Biarritz. It had been a long day on the road.
It was an enjoyable walk along the cliffs and back to the
town the next day where well-dressed diners and laid-back surfers were lunching
in the mix of belle époque and art deco bars and restaurants. The old port was
full of fishing boats taking shelter behind the tall sea walls and the
harbourside cafés served fish lunches that smelt tantalisingly of seafood,
lemon and garlic.
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| Port-Vieux |
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| A very public workout! |
Beach life was fully embraced by locals and tourists
alike and we enjoyed walking the cliffs skirting past joggers, power
walkers and impromptu work outs. One girl’s daily routine seemed focused on a bizarre
tree whacking exercise. Other older fitness fans made use of the freely
available gym stations. We mooched leisurely on by.
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| Surf’s up on Grande Plage |
As the sun heated up we joined the throngs of Friday
beachgoers down at the town’s historic Café de Grande Plage, part of the splendid
art noveau casino, for a glass of local vin blanc. A memorable way to celebrate
our crossing of France from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic coast! Biarritz was filling up for the weekend...
Back at the aire and a commune of weekending Basque
families had set up a noisy camp causing some French and German vans to leave
in haste. We cheerily made small talk trying to dust up our various rusty Guatemalan
Spanish phrases (“I can’t remember”, “I am from England”, “let’s go dancing”, “which
bus goes to the volcano?”, “two beers please”, “my knee hurts!”) and were
rewarded with a plate of freshly grilled sea bass caught that afternoon by our
grinning and gap-toothed Basque neighbour, the patriarch of an enormous family
of short dark men and sulky bleached blonde girls. We got along enjoyably for a
couple of days together.
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| The packed aire at Anglet |
